"You don't know where you're going till you get there,"

says the old man after the subway train pulls
out of the station, brakes screeching
dragging itself laboriously
along the tracks like some
massive wounded beast
His teeth are yellowed
stained and rotting as he smiles at you
over the crinkled brown paper bag
clutched in his two
knotted hands

There are two people in this car:
you and him
(no one in their right mind takes the sub at 3 am in this city)
and he sits uncomfortably close
two rows away even though
there are more than enough available perches
much farther away
from you
He smells
like earth; not a bad smell
sort of like
fallen leaves after the first snowfall has come
and gone;
not bad
but other.

"I read that in a book once."
He persists in talking
even though you made a point to avoid
eye contact
You can't tell if he's addressing you
or an invisible seatmate.
The train moves through dark tunnels,
flashes of rail and branches disappearing into a lightless distance
spray-painted bursts of color
signs of rebellion and anger
flying by your window

"You know I used to be a lawyer?"
Out of your peripherals you see him take a swig of whatever is in
the glass bottle in
the brown paper bag
One of the car's ceiling lights
keeps flickering and it's
casting chairs and poles into warped shadows in the aisles
for the briefest second at a time
making the vibrant orange plastic of the seats
vaguely sinister

The old man is slumped in his seat
against the window, asleep,
ragged coat bunched around him
mouth hanging open
breath fogging up the glass
outside which the world is slowing down
as the train pulls into the next empty station
with a wrenching squeal and a
shuddering stop.
It's your stop and
you get out of your hard cold seat
to go out through the sliding double doors
after a voice above announces
they're opening
you walk out
to go up the stairs and
down the hall and
into the street where
it's a lonely ten minute walk to
your empty apartment -
home -

The doors meet again behind you with a thump of heavy rubber
and you stop and turn
to watch as the train moves on,
pulls away in a burst of cool stale wind
the old man inside your car
still slumped against the window
to dream.

Colors

It occurred to me, yesterday
that the colors of nature
never clash,
are perfectly synchronized.
red orange brown gold
green yellow: leaves
blades flowers stones;
blue black purple pink
white gray: sky and water
in colors indescribable
far better dressed
than by any painter's hand.

The Psalmist reflects often on the glory of nature
but he always seems to leave out
God's impeccable taste.

This is a poem about the weather.

The sun burns bright
lending a glow to the browning leaves of fall,
glimmering through the trees
uninterrupted by clouds in the infinite blue
of the heavens

The man on the television
assured, armed with his plaid bowtie
and disarming smile,
"Clear skies and sunshine,
All day long, folks"

That was the forecast yesterday, too
but it poured
suddenly, in the early hours of the afternoon
and caught in the downpour, I learned
how a weatherman can be wrong

Today,
the forecast calls for perfection.
Today,
sun shining,
not a cloud in the sky,

I carry an umbrella.